by Tess Oliver
“We must keep a closer eye on him to make sure an alarming situation like the fire does not occur again.”
“A simple solution for a monstrous problem. And speaking of keeping an eye on him, where is Zander right now?”
Father stabbed the fork into his eggs. “He went to his favorite new room, the library.”
Angel jumped from the table so quickly it rattled the dishes. His heart slammed against his ribs as he raced to the library fearful of what he might find. He landed in the doorway and stared into the room. Jane’s head was bent down over a book and sitting on the settee next to her like an overgrown child listening to a bedtime story was Zander with his wrapped arms and permanent grin. He touched the pages as she read to him. Her soothing voice filled the room and her attentive one man audience was absorbed by her lyrical recitation of words.
Angel slowed his breathing and sat in the chair across from them. Father, obviously alarmed at Angel’s abrupt departure from the breakfast room, appeared at the door.
“You see, all is well,” Father said with a self-satisfied smirk. The realization that his latest triumph could read, and with the mastery of any educated person, did not seem to astound him in the least. “I have work to do in the lab. Make sure Zander stays out of trouble.”
Like he’d done at breakfast, Angel watched her unabashedly. And she made every effort, it seemed, not to be distressed by his presence. Now he could sympathize with Zander’s obsession with the drapery pattern. Angel could have watched her full, round lips move with words for hours and not have bored of it. And the longer he watched her, the harder it was for him to look away.
The dusty, stark interior of the library did not diminish the warm glow that seemed to radiate from every inch of her. But she was a creature, Angel had to remind himself. She was merely a figment of his father’s decrepit imagination.
Her lips curled into a soft smile as something she read amused her. Angel groaned inwardly as he watched her tongue flick across her bottom lip. She may have been something his father had conjured from lifeless flesh but the girl sitting in front of him now was so alive he burned with the need to touch her.
Ellie marched in self-importantly. It was obvious she was pleased to have a guest in the house. “’Tis a lovely day outside. The sun is warmer than usual.” She walked over and drew back the heavy drapes. Clouds of dust rose from the faded azure curtains as she whisked them back and tied the gold silk tassels around them. Angel squinted at the sudden light streaming into the room. The rays of sunlight lit up the small particles of dust as they drifted to the ground.
“I can feel the warmth of it through the window pane,” Jane said. She closed the book and gently took hold of Zander’s wrapped hand. “Shall we take a look out the window?”
He stared down at her fingers as if he’d never been touched before. Angel gripped the arms of the chair as he waited to see what Zander would do next. The creature’s reactions grew more unpredictable each day. But the silly grin that he wore so frequently nearly split his face in two. He jumped to his feet and his mass combined with the quickness of his movements startled Jane for a moment, but she regained her composure quickly. With the exception of Ellie, Angel could not think of one woman in a hundred who would give a simpleton like Zander the time of day, let alone take the time to read to him.
They stood side-by-side peering out the window. The top of her head barely reached Zander’s elbow. She was a strand of gossamer next to him.
“I’ve sent your stable hand home for the day, Master Angel,” Ellie stood over him now but he had not taken his eyes off the girl. “Poor lad was sicker than a dog.”
“I’ll take care of the horses today. The stables have needed my attention for some time and this will force me to tend to it.”
“That sun is going to make the snow soft on the pathways. Then come tonight it’ll freeze again and be too dangerous to walk on,” Ellie suggested.
He lifted his eyebrow at her. “I will shovel the walkway too. Anything else taskmaster?”
She grinned contentedly to herself. “That should do it.”
“I’m in need of some physical exertion anyhow. Some hard labor will do me good, but Ellie . . .” He looked toward the window realizing it had been the first moment he’d taken his gaze off of the girl since he’d walked into the library. She was pointing at something in the distance and whatever it was it held Zander’s attention.
“Do not fret about a thing, Master Angel. I’ll keep an eye on these two. By the way, Dr. Van Ostrand was struck with one of those sudden headaches. He has taken to his bed. The last one had him down for three days.”
“It’s all that chloroform and ether in his lab, no doubt, I’m sure he’ll come out of it soon enough.” Angel stood and glanced once more at Jane.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Ellie said, “is she not?”
“Yes,” Angel said in a barely audible tone, “that she is.”
Chapter 11
She’d read a bit longer, but like Zander, the little boy trapped in a large man’s body, Jane grew weary of the books. Dr. Van Ostrand was obviously a man filled with generosity and empathy. Not many men would saddle themselves with a burden such as Zander. Ellie had told her he’d just shown up one day, and the doctor allowed him to live at the manor. Now Jane had entered their lives as well. She felt welcome by almost everyone, but she had the distinct impression that the doctor’s son, Angel, would be just as pleased to see her leave. And she would leave once she was strong enough. She had no intention of taking advantage of the doctor’s hospitality indefinitely.
Ellie had talked Zander into resting in his bedroom and Jane had remained in the library. She gazed out the window that looked out over the yards and stables. A blanket of snow covered everything, and the memory of a distant winter holiday tried to make its way to the forefront of her mind, but she could never see it clearly. She lost the tenuous hold and the visions disappeared.
Her breath fogged the window as she stared down through the pane. Angel Van Ostrand had tied his shoulder length black hair back with a strip of leather and he’d shed his coat. His thick arms and broad shoulders strained the thin fabric of his shirt as he shoveled the snow and ice from the path. It was an arduous task yet he made it look easy.
The sky was a peacock blue and steam rose from the path he’d cleared. She longed to go outside; snow or not, the day looked inviting. She heard Ellie talking to the maid in the hallway and poked her head out.
“I think I might step outside for a bit,” Jane said.
Ellie’s mouth dropped open but then the lines in her face crinkled warmly. “The doctor mentioned that you’d left your satchels on the carriage. I think I have something for you to wear. I will fetch it for you.” Moments later she returned with a pale green cloak.
“It belonged to Mrs. Van Ostrand,” Ellie said as she draped it around Jane’s shoulders.
Jane twisted back to look at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t wear it then. The doctor’s son was upset when he saw that I was wearing her dress.”
“Angel? Nonsense, he will not mind.”
“He does not care for me, of that I’m certain,” Jane said aloud and realized that it truly bothered her.
“I see the way he watches you, Miss Jane. There is not a trace of dislike in his expression.” She smiled as she fastened the cloak beneath Jane’s chin. “Quite the opposite in fact.”
Jane drew the satin lined hood up over her head. “Then we’ve been looking at a different man. He seems to take pleasure in making me fidget beneath his harsh glare.”
“Master Angel is a little rough around the edges, but I’ve never met a man with so much courage in his heart.” Ellie checked that the cloak was tied securely. “Off with you now, but don’t stay out there long. The sunlight is deceiving. There is still a bitter chill in the air.”
Jane’s borrowed kidskin slippers were slightly oversized making the descent down the stone steps of the terrace that much more difficult but sh
e managed. She tread so softly on the cleared path, Angel did not hear her. Or if he had, he ignored her presence.
The worn cotton fabric of his shirt clung to the sweat on his back as he plowed through the mounds of snow. Jane lifted her face to the sunlight and bathed in its warmth. It seemed ice and cold was all she could remember. She knew instinctively that the sun would warm her so at some time in her phantom past she must have stood just as she did now with her face turned up and her eyes closed against the sun’s kisses. She was still feeling lightheaded and when she finally dropped her chin and opened her eyes she swayed some. He took a step toward her.
She lifted her hand. “I’m fine.”
The faces of her past were a blur and she didn’t know if they would ever come clear in her foggy mind, but the face in front of her now she would not soon forget. His light brown eyes were as disconcerting as they were intriguing.
She smiled up at the sky. “I think I’m a bit drunk with sunshine.”
Had she detected a glimmer of a smile? He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. “Is the cloak warm enough?” he asked.
“Quite,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know it belonged to your mother. I hope you don’t mind.”
“She has no more use for it,” he said and returned to his task.
Jane looked around at the frozen landscape. Winter had taken prisoner anything that once flourished. While some trees held fast to their ice draped needles, others had given way to the pressures of it and stood as mere skeletons. The garden statues resembled ice sculptures as their angelic expression dripped with tiny icicles. In the distance she saw a flash of color. She trudged through the snow toward it. Her feet were soaked instantly but she reached the color and it had been well worth the frostbitten toes. A dark pink rose bloomed in the middle of the lifeless landscape. She leaned down to take in its fruity fragrance. The petals were soft and supple beneath her nearly numb fingertips. She glanced around for more but it was completely alone. Her fingers brushed over it again. “I know exactly how you feel,” she said. A shadow fell over her and she looked back over her shoulder.
Angel Van Ostrand stood directly behind her. A thin bead of sweat made its way down his neck settling in the hollow of his throat. His intense gaze lightened. “Do you often talk to flowers?”
“Yes, I find they are quite the conversationalists.” She looked down at the lone flower. “Truthfully,” she said quietly, “I don’t know if I do anything often. I cannot seem to remember my existence prior to waking up in your father’s examination room.”
His face hardened again and Jane could see a tiny twitch along the side of his jaw. “Is that what he called it? An examination room?”
Jane was both puzzled and hurt by his tone. “He is a doctor, is he not?”
“If you insist.” He returned to his shovel. He lifted it over his shoulder and headed to the stables.
She’d done nothing to provoke his anger, she was certain of it. He disappeared into the barn. Jane’s feet tingled with cold. She trudged back to the path, but instead of heading back to the house she walked with purpose toward the stables.
The warm musky scent and comforting sounds of horses met her as she stood in the entrance. Angel had not heard her. He threw down his shovel and pulled the sweat-soaked shirt off over his head. Jane stepped back. She’d meant to give him a piece of her mind but seeing him standing before her half-naked and magnificent from the head to toe, she’d lost her resolve. He spun around and faced her. That is when she saw it; there below his muscular chest was a dreadful scar, a hole that resembled her own in appearance and position. It rested in the hollow that ran along his stomach muscles. She held her breath and stepped toward him. She had no idea why she’d done it, but she walked up close to him and lifted her hand toward the scar. She could hear his sharp intake of breath as her fingertips made contact with the hardened skin. She peered up at him and his light brown eyes looked feverish.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“The war, a bayonet,” his voice was low and hoarse.
“I have a hole in my side that is nearly identical to this.” Her fingers trailed along the edge of his scar and the shard of an image stabbed through her mind— a knife with a pearl colored handle. Suddenly Angel grabbed her wrist and lifted her hand away. His naked chest heaved with breaths now, but he did not release his hold on her.
“Forgive me,” she said. But she did not cower beneath his heated gaze. His fingers tightened. Courage had not abandoned her after all. “Why do you hate me?”
She was certain the frail bones of her wrist would snap in his iron grip then he released her.
“I’ve work to do,” he said coldly. “You should return to the house.” He turned away from her and walked toward the rear of the stables. He braced both his hands on a wood beam that crossed between the stalls and dropped his head. The thick, well defined muscles of his back bulged with tension as he stood there. “Please Jane, get out.”
She turned on her heels and scurried back to the house as quickly as her ill-fitting shoes could carry her.
Chapter 12
Angel had skipped the afternoon meal. He’d finished the last of the gin and had to settle for the less agreeable bottle of rum. Fatigue wracked every inch of his body. He’d changed into a dry shirt, but removing boots and breeches would have taken far more energy than he could muster. He stretched back on his bed with his bottle and lit cheroot. But no amount of rum or tobacco could lessen the memory of the girl’s touch. He grew hard just thinking about her delicate, white fingertips tracing the scar on his side. She’d been completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. It had taken all his will not to grab her into his arms. But then he’d had to remind himself of what she was, and as difficult as it was to swallow the reality of it, the distasteful truth could not be ignored.
While he patched several walls in the stables, he’d convinced himself that he needed to leave Greystock for a time. He would take a room at the inn, where both an endless supply of gin and female companionship could keep him content. But then he thought of the girl, and dear Ellie, left alone to fend for themselves with an obsessed old man and his dangerous two-legged specimen. Even if the girl was part of the entire grisly scenario, she did not deserve to be left alone with the menacing Zander or the unstable Dr. Van Ostrand.
Half the bottle gone and the cheroot down to a measly stub, Angel drifted off to sleep, back to the battlefield that invaded all his dreams. But the vivid images of blood and torn limbs were interrupted by a loud crashing sound which tore him from his slumber. His state of inebriation clouded his thoughts for a moment, but he was certain he’d heard the noise and that it had come from guest room where Jane slept.
He raced down the hall, stopped at her door, and knocked. “Jane, are you all right?”
There was no answer but he could hear a feathery sigh inside.
“Jane, let me in.”
Again there was silence. He grabbed the knob and swung the door open. Dressed only in her chemise, Jane straightened from a crouch and held up one half of the porcelain pitcher. She turned back and looked at him but there was more anguish than surprise in her face.
Angel politely turned his face. “Forgive me, I heard the noise and I thought you’d fallen.”
“I don’t know how I managed it,” her voice broke, and she turned toward the dressing table that held the matching basin and placed the broken piece inside of it. Her hair was swept up away from her long neck. Angel imagined trailing his lips along the curve of it, but as his eyes drank in the creamy softness of her skin, he noticed a scar that branched up from the center of her back and ended on the round curve of her shoulder. He walked over to her and picked up the remaining chunks of porcelain.
She stared down at the broken vessel. “I had removed my dress to wash,” she began but hesitated. Jane lifted her eyes and stared at his reflection in the mirror, “and I noticed the scar on my shoulder.” She turned to him. “How far does it
go?” she asked.
He lifted his finger and touched her shoulder then lightly trailed it along the scar to the middle of her back then reluctantly dropped his hand. He’d held his breath for the length of it.
Jane braced her hands on the dresser and closed her eyes. “It was a rider’s whip. I remember the beating. I cannot remember why I received it or who it came from, but I remember the sting of it as the leather strap struck me over and over again.”
Angel’s fists tightened as he thought about someone beating the girl so severely it had left a permanent mark. She looked up at him and instead of anger or sorrow there was relief in her eyes. “It’s coming back to me.” She grabbed his arm unexpectedly. “Don’t you see what this means? I’ve remembered something.” She grew quiet a moment and looked down at the scar on her shoulder. “I only hope there are some pleasant memories to look forward to and not just the kinds that have left me scarred.” There was no self-pity in her tone but there should have been. She’d been beaten and stabbed and now she’d ended up here at dismal Greystock Manor. She had plenty to be depressed about and yet her eyes sparkled with relief.
“I’ll let Ellie know you need a new pitcher of water,” Angel said. If he stood much longer in her room with her supple breasts and round hips covered only by the sheer fabric of her chemise, he did not think he could trust himself . . . no matter what she was or how she came to be here. He walked to the door and glanced back once more and then something struck him. She had the scar of a beating but there were no marks on the back of her neck. Zander had two pronounced scars on the back of his neck. Father had explained that he’d made the incisions to place electric wires at the base of his brain. Why had he not done the same with Jane? He shut the door and walked down the long hallway to his father’s bedroom.